


Well Woven, Slightly Worn

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blackmail, Choking, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, F/M, Letters, M/M, Multi, Threats, shirt stealing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 22:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11194413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: “There is nothing I can do about Erik,” Christine said. “Nor anything you can do. It is best to accept what he has done and move on within his bounds.”“Within his bounds?”“Well.”Or, the one with four letters, thirty-six shirts and three denizens of the Opera Populaire.





	Well Woven, Slightly Worn

**Author's Note:**

> About three months ago I said I wanted to write a fic just about Erik systematically stealing Raoul's shirts. That's not quite what this fic is! Well, I tried. Anyways I should warn you: look at the tags. The people in this fic are jerks. You should probably tread carefully.

Raoul de Chagny, while not vain or overly concerned with appearances, did spend a certain amount of thought on fashion. While he had been allowed to ignore it as a boy (as a boy he had been running loose on the coast of Sweden and it would have been reckless to give him clothes that were too good), these days wearing better clothing was important. As a member of high society, he was expected to look the part.

In any case, outfits could not be thrown together easily. He always made sure to lay out his clothes for the evening out in the morning to make sure he had the entire outfit and it was well put together. And then he had Philippe look it over (or rather, Philippe insisted on looking it over because he claimed Raoul’s fashion sense was completely terrible). And then he would leave it lying on his bed for the rest of the day while he attended to other things. Evening attire was not suitable for the morning or afternoon.

On one particular night, however, things did not proceed as they usually did. Raoul laid out his clothes in the morning—a white shirt and a blue waistcoat (to match Christine’s recent surge of blue dresses, though of course no one would know that) and a black coat and pair of pants. Philippe peeked at them and, seeing a familiar pairing, shrugged and said Raoul was getting slightly better at civilized life. And Raoul left the outfit completely alone all day.

And then he went back to it in the evening. And the waistcoat and coat and pants and shoes were all there, and even the cravat and pocket square were still there, but the shirt was gone.

Raoul, of course, had many white shirts. Philippe complained that the shirt he ended up choosing was eggshell white and therefore not as nice as the snowier white he’d chosen earlier, but it was a matter of little importance. No one at the opera house noticed that evening, and Raoul figured the other shirt would turn up eventually.

Only the next night, Saturday night and therefore the second night in a row he was planning on attending the opera, his shirt went missing as well. A cream one this time. And the eggshell white shirt had gone missing in the wash, and the washerwoman said it was none of her doing. She said she’d never received the white shirt, while Raoul was almost certain she had.

Of course it was petty to interrogate the staff. He didn’t worry too much about it. He had at least twenty white shirts, not to mention a number of shirts in brighter colors for less formal occasions—red shirts and yellow shirts and green shirts and even a couple shirts in dark blue and black. It didn’t matter.

Except it happened that Sunday as well. His white shirt of the night went missing. Down to eighteen white shirts, then.

It had become a pattern.

Raoul thought it over that evening. Things went missing at the opera house all the time, said a little voice in his head. And another voice, that sounded a lot like little Meg Giry, whispered, “When things go wrong at the opera house, there’s only ever one cause…”

But that was ridiculous. The Phantom of the Opera had no reason to be stealing Raoul’s shirts. They barely even knew each other.

* * *

 

This was what Raoul knew of the Phantom of the Opera:

First, that he was real. This was more than many people knew at the Opera Populaire. Many said he was simply a superstition, although a potent one considering the hold his name had on the opera folk. Others who had received certain notes from him knew better, but even they did not know whether he was a simple prankster, a dangerous criminal, or in fact a ghost.

Raoul knew a little more than that. The Phantom was a man, and moreover, a man named Erik.

Christine had told him a good deal about this Erik.

Apparently Erik had at first lied to her. He had claimed to be the Angel of Music her father often spoke of. However, after a couple weeks of this lie, he revealed his true colors. He was a human, a man dreadfully lonely and even more dreadfully clever. He haunted the opera house because he feared society, humanity. And this was because he was deformed, with a face that looked more like a skull. He had shown himself to her, but only wearing a mask. And he had never taken the mask off.

(She hesitated a bit when telling Raoul that part, so Raoul felt she might be leaving something out. But he allowed her to tell him only what she wished.)

Erik had taught her much about singing, and also much about life. He called her his protégée, and he was trying to heighten her status at the opera house. And this was currently the cause of many of the accidents which most called simple fits of rage—Erik was in a battle of wills with the managers. Christine laughed a bit nervously at that part. She and Raoul both knew the managers, though she far better than Raoul, a simple opera-goer. Neither could doubt who would win in such a battle.

There were other various details about Christine and Erik’s relationship Raoul also knew, but none of them of great importance. As for himself, he had only had one instance of contact with the famed Phantom—directly, at least. It came the day after Christine told him about her and Erik’s relationship in the form of a letter handed to him by Madame Giry.

“My dear Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny,

“I have noted your attendance at my operas many times before—of course, all operas that take place in my opera house are mine, if this turn of phrase causes you confusion. It made me glad to see such a devoted patron. Now that you have reunited with Miss Daae and she has told me of your past friendship, I fear you had an ulterior motive aside from the enjoyment of the music and dancing. Still, the company and presence of Miss Daae can be admitted as a valid motive for any number of actions, even actions far more ridiculous than attending a number of operas.

“I would like, however, to make something clear to you: While my opera house is the stage for many a love affair, I would not see Miss Daae indulge in any such matters. The pleasures of the flesh she has forsaken for the glory of pure music. As for you, if you would become Miss Daae’s friend and associate with her, I must insist you hold yourself to a similar standard. If I were to hear, after this night, of your involvement in any sort of amorous arrangement with any woman, I would be very displeased. And, I’m afraid to say, when I am displeased with someone, things do not generally go well for them.

“I do hope, however, you will not be turned off by these words, no matter how harsh they may seem to you now. I have always been happy to see you at my opera house, as one of my regulars, and I hope you will continue. Perhaps now that we have corresponded once, there is a chance we may interact again. I hope so, as I believe we might have interesting conversations, on theater and other matters.

“Yours most Cordially,

“Erik.”

“Well,” Raoul commented to Christine at the time. “He did not sign it O.G. Is that a good sign or a bad sign?”

“If you know he’s Erik there’s no point in signing it as an opera ghost,” Christine pointed out, exasperated. “Honestly I doubt any of it means anything. Just don’t take up with any of the opera girls and you’ll have his blessing, and we can spend as much time together as we please. I am very happy about it—I rather thought he would tell you to go away.”

“Still, it’s presumptuous of him to act like he can tell me what to do. And the opera house doesn’t belong to him, you know…”

“Yes, yes, it belongs to the managers. Not that they do much good with it! But really Raoul, is there anything in the letter you object to?”

“The fact that he has been watching me? I think that as a start is disturbing, not to mention his arbitrary restrictions if I…”

“What, did you plan on taking up with one of the ballerinas? Or one of the chorus girls? Don’t tell me you’ve become so sophisticated you want a mistress.” Christine laughed a bit too loudly.

Raoul bit his lip. You, he didn’t say. I wanted to “take up” with you. It sounded so crude when she put it that way. He had dreamed of so many things when he had seen her again on that stage after all this time, first a simple ballerina in complicated sequences and later a singer with solos and admirers. He had let himself become absorbed in the curves of her body, sinuous, hard and soft at the same time, mesmerizing. He had let her voice hypnotize him. And he had thought—oh, so many stupid things. He had thought about asking her to marry him. He had thought about what it would mean to leave his family, and thought that it might be worth it. He had thought about becoming a simple farmer somewhere in Sweden. He had thought about bringing her flowers.

Well, he had done the last of those things. That, at least, the Phantom could never take away.

“It is good that Erik likes you, though,” Christine said, apparently assuming the subject dropped. “He really can be a lot of trouble when he dislikes someone. Do you know how much he’s been hassling Carlotta?”

And that was the last time Raoul heard from the Phantom, or rather from Erik. He half expected to continue receiving letters like the managers, or start hearing Erik’s voice like Christine. He half wanted to hear Erik’s voice—Christine described it as impossibly lovely, and while Raoul came to the opera for Christine’s sake that did not mean he did not appreciate fine music. But none of that happened and instead Raoul was left feeling like the whole thing was somewhat anticlimactic. The most that ever happened was that he would imagine his voice echoed more than usual, or that the shadows had odd shapes and seemed to be watching him. Which probably was, indeed, his imagination.

He tried to forget Erik, most of the time. Although with the amount Christine and the ballet girls (that damn Meg Giry) talked about him it was nearly impossible.

But Christine did not mention Erik speaking of Raoul, no matter how many music lessons or odd meetings she described. At least, not for a few months. And then one day, quite out of the blue, she asked, “Tell me, Raoul, are you and Erik very close now?”

“No.”

Christine frowned. “That is a very short response, Raoul. I wish you’d give me more details than that. You cannot mean that you and he are arguing?”

“No. I do not mean that. I mean that since he sent me that one letter, I have not spoken to him at all. So one could hardly call us close.”

“Well, he is an odd man. Perhaps he has been near you, or speaking to you in ways…that you might not understand to be him. Perhaps that is how it is.”

“I can tell you with certainty that is how it isn’t. We have no contact. We have no connection. Except for you of course. All I’ve heard of him comes from you.”

“That is very strange,” Christine said.

“Would it not be stranger for him to take an interest in me? Despite his one letter, I am simply one of many patrons.”

“No, I mean it’s strange because I could have sworn the other day he was wearing one of your shirts. Perhaps it is just that shirts can look so alike—still, it seems strange. It was white so it was much like any other shirt, but it had a certain wrinkle in the collar that reminded me of one of your shirts. That wrinkle in the collar you can never quite straighten out with ironing…”

Raoul smiled. “Very interesting. But many shirts have wrinkled collars.”

“Not like this. I’ve seen it on you so often, and it always drives me half mad wanting to straighten it. His sleeves were too short too.”

Raoul said, “Hm.”

“Still, I suppose it could be a coincidence. I only wondered if you could have lent him a shirt…but then again, I suppose that would have been an odd thing for you to do.”

“I can tell you I have not lent him a shirt or seen him,” Raoul said. “But you are right. That is most certainly strange.”

* * *

 

That Wednesday, another shirt went missing. This time it was the one he had laid out the night before for the day’s work. He hadn’t even planned on going to the opera that night, and the shirt was a shade of green.

The next day’s shirt went missing too.

Raoul did an inventory. He still had seventeen white shirts (another must have gone missing while he was not paying attention) and fifteen shirts of other colors. His vests and coats and pants were all still available.

All of his ties were gone. Half of his socks were missing, but that was normal. And one of his scarves was gone—but on further thought, he remembered giving that scarf to Meg Giry about a week ago because she had been outside and shivering. So not all the disappearances were supernatural.

Still. “I need to talk to Christine.”

* * *

 

Christine was not very available on Fridays, but Raoul managed to take her out to dinner. He listened to her talk first about her recent news, her various concerns about recent performances, her opinions of the performance tonight. Offered what little insight he had.

And then he brought up his own missing clothes conundrum. “You say you thought Erik was wearing one of my shirts the other day?”

Christine nodded, then shrugged. “We both agreed it seemed unlikely.”

Raoul told her about his current clothing crisis. “That’s…six shirts missing I think? And my family has had our servants for a long time, I don’t think they’d start stealing my clothes now.”

“You used to lose clothes a lot.”

“I was twelve.”

“Remember that time we went for a walk on the beach and you took off your shoes and left them on this rock? You were so convinced you could just come back and get them. But when we came back that evening, the tide had come in…”

Raoul sighed. The memory was still a little sad. It had been a good pair of shoes, and his mother had been angry with him. Good shoes cost money.

“But I’m older now. And I haven’t been walking by the seaside and taking my shirts off. Besides, every single one of my ties.”

“I’ll admit you aren’t that careless. It is odd. Only…what interest would Erik have in your clothing? There haven’t been any clothes missing in the opera house. It’s really not the sort of thing he does.”

“He’s a man in a mask who gives you music lessons and refuses to talk about his past, Christine,” Raoul said. “Maybe it is the sort of thing he does. We don’t know enough about him to judge.”

“Still, our relationship is hardly one where I could take him to task, and the accusation would be absurd. I’m not sure what I could do about it, except watch what he wears. If he wears one of your ties, I am sure I would recognize it, unless it were one of the black ones. Those all look the same.”

“I was wondering if you could give him a letter.”

“…Perhaps.”

Raoul had not actually written out a letter yet. He worried that if he wrote it himself it would sound overly aggressive for Christine—while he cared little about any opera ghost’s feelings he was aware Christine might be more concerned. He also worried that if he tried to sound nicer because of Christine then Erik might not take him seriously and hypothetically continue stealing his shirts. And while he still had thirty-three shirts left, that was not something he wanted.

Christine told him it was probably best to take a firm stance but with politeness, and he agreed. The letter he drafted went something like this:

“Dear Monsieur Erik,

“I have not heard from you in quite a while. I would hope that means you are pleased with my conduct. I must say, however, that I have heard strange news from Christine: that lately you have worn a shirt that appears to be mine. Several of my shirts have gone missing lately. I wonder if you would know what has occurred with them, and how I can prevent such incidents in the future.

“Your humble servant,

“Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny.”

“I don’t like this ‘humble servant’ part,” Raoul said to Christine. “I mean quite frankly, I’m not. I’m not his servant or humble, or humbly his servant. I’m asking him a question, not trying to gain his favor.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Well, you are his humble servant if you want to get anything accomplished,” Christine said loftily. “You will simply have to tolerate it, Raoul. Believe me. I know what sorts of things he likes to hear. The only thing he loves more than music is groveling and praise.” She glanced around as if to check for listeners before remembering they were at a local club, not the opera house. The likelihood that Erik would follow them here was low.

“I will not grovel just to get back my damn shirts.”

“And yet you are still going to write him a letter—and force me to deliver it. Either you want them back or you don’t.”

“Fine! I do. Philippe is convinced I am simply being very careless. Christine, you do not know how he gets.”

“Oh, I’ve met him. He used to think you were in love with me. He didn’t like me at all.”

Raoul smiled painfully. “Well. I guess Philippe is wrong about a lot of things.”

Christine smiled back. “He thinks you are very foolish.” She touched his hand. “But you shouldn’t worry about what he thinks. You are smart enough, and besides nobility needn’t be all that clever. You shouldn’t worry about the shirts either. Your budget is big enough to buy a new shirt every day.”

“That would be actually foolish.”

“Hm. Maybe.”

They considered the idea for a minute. Then Christine shrugged. “I will deliver your letter.”

“I am grateful. Then, we will see what happens, I suppose.”

The next day, Raoul’s shirt inventory had lowered again. To twenty-eight. This time overnight, and five shirts at once, including the one he had planned on wearing that night. Whether it was Erik or not, it was clearly escalating.

He still had ten white shirts. It was manageable. For now. But one of his coats had gone missing now, and that was truly worrying. He only had seven of those.

Fortunately, that mystery was quickly solved. He went to Christine’s room that night and she handed him his coat immediately.

“You left it with me last night. Because I was cold…truly you are careless. I begin to suspect your complaints are not genuine.” But she smiled as she said this, and Raoul smiled back.

“Did you give the letter to Erik?”

“I did! He responded immediately, which I did not expect. His answer is here.” She thrust a letter at him, and he opened it and read it aloud.

“Dear Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny,

“Yes.

“Yours truly,

“Erik.”

Raoul read it aloud three times with increasing volume. “Yes? YES? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well you asked him if he knew what happened to your shirts and how to get them back. I suppose this means he does know but won’t tell you,” Christine said, crossing her arms. “Although I will admit it is somewhat brief.”

“Brief doesn’t describe it.” Raoul sighed. “I won’t ask you to send another letter. Clearly his frame of mind is not amenable.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not threatening, at least.”

“Not threatening. Unlike his words concerning me and romance.”

“Come now. Are you still cross about that?”

Of course he was. But he only shrugged. “I suppose I’ll turn in. Tomorrow is a new day, and perhaps the thief is truly someone else.”

* * *

 

That night, Raoul had an odd dream. Or rather it was probably not a dream—he decided this the next day—but at the time he was certain it was, because he was only half awake and it was very dark and reality was hazy.

There was a figure in the room, standing in the corner, where he used to think a monster might lurk when he was a little boy. But when the figure spoke (and it did speak), its voice was not the gruff voice of a monster, but smooth and angelic. So smooth and so kind that Raoul barely woke up, certain it must be a good apparition.

“You wrote to me, Raoul,” the voice said. “You never did that before.”

Who are you? Raoul wanted to say. I never sent a letter to an angel, only to…

“It was a nice letter,” the voice continued. “Though not sincere, I fear. But Christine is a good influence on you nonetheless.”

The figure moved closer. It was dressed all in black, with a cape that swirled around it. It was too dark to make out a face, though the shape of it at least was human enough.

“It was a very nice letter. But nice words are not enough to absolve you.” The figure shook its head, and its disapproval sent Raoul into despair. “No, Raoul, you must change your ways if you want to be worthy of my protégée, and my opera house, and me.”

Opera house. Opera house.

Raoul was searching his mind for some connection that he was missing. Something very important he couldn’t remember.

The voice began to sing a lullaby.

That was all Raoul remembered of the occurrence the next morning when he woke. It might have been an incident easy to dismiss. Except half of his shirts were missing—and of those remaining, not a single one was white.

* * *

 

“Raoul, this is getting ridiculous.” Philippe was in some kind of mood. Raoul had been forced to tell him about his new loss of shirts, and it did not exactly make him happy. “You can’t keep losing your clothes this way. What have you been doing: giving your shirts away to the poor? Throwing them out the window at passersby?”

“Please. This is not my fault. Why would I try to get rid of my clothes?”

“Because I chose them for you and you resent me?” Philippe laughed when Raoul gave him a look. “Of course I am joking. Only I can’t imagine it is one of the servants. Well! It is a puzzle.”

“I dreamed last night of the Phantom of the Opera,” Raoul said.

Philippe shook his head. “Brother, your dreams are strange.”

Clearly he was going to be of no help. Raoul said, “I need to go to the opera house today.” He had to speak to Christine.

“Not without a white shirt. There’s a dress code…”

“Then I’ll go after the matinee is over. All I need is to see Christine.”

“Still after that Daae girl?”

Raoul smiled thinly. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. Besides, you have La Sorelli.”

“Yes, well…”

And so, Raoul waited until all the performances of the day were over to seek Christine out. She heard his story out attentively, and when he was done said, “So that’s why your shirt today is yellow.”

“Bright yellow,” Raoul said with a sigh. “Apparently this is my life from now on.”

“Nonsense. Buy some new white shirts.”

“My old shirts were fine. If Erik…”

“There is nothing I can do about Erik,” Christine said. “Nor anything you can do. It is best to accept what he has done and move on within his bounds.”

“Within his bounds?”

“Well.”

“Within his bounds? I have been following his rules to the letter!” Raoul said. “I have said not a word of love or attraction since I received his letter. I have not even winked at La Sorelli—and she’s been winking at me constantly ever since I got here.” His brother’s mistress was something of a menace.

“And you wanted to be flirting with everyone?” Christine said, raising her voice. “You wanted to start cavorting with…”

“I wanted to—I was in love with you, Christine!”

Christine stopped mid-sentence. She opened her mouth and then closed it again.

Raoul flushed. It occurred to him that it was very probable that Erik was listening in on this conversation (not certain, but probable). It also occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever used the word “love” with Christine. When they were young, he had often thought it, but he had been too shy to use it. And when they reunited, he had barely spoken to her more than once or twice before receiving the letter from Erik. He had not had the time.

But, he thought, she must have known. Everyone at the opera house gossiped about how gone he was over her. It had remained unspoken between them until now, a polite little secret, but she must have known.

Christine finally spoke. “You…were? In love with me?”

“Yes, very much so. If that blasted—”

“Were,” Christine interrupted. “Then, you are not in love with me anymore?”

Raoul said, “I, that is, what, I…What sort of a question is that to ask me when I’m supposed to be deep in celibacy?”

Christine said, “Do you love me now or not?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then…but then why haven’t you said anything?”

She was looking at him with a frown and wide eyes, half scolding and half confused. Raoul was unsure how to respond.

He shrugged.

“I thought you were done with me,” Christine said. “After you only watched me on stage for so long without coming to talk to me…and then when you did, you didn’t say anything. If you loved me, why didn’t you say anything?”

Raoul found his voice. “The letter. You told me to do as Erik said.”

“Of course I did! I was the one who told him to put that clause in.”

Raoul blinked.

Christine crossed her arms.

Raoul said, “I…What?”

“I told him I thought you might fall for someone else, and I told him I didn’t want that to happen. I told him I could not stand the thought of you with someone else, and that it would break my heart. I told him I worried that even if you wanted me you’d only use me for sex, like your brother uses La Sorelli. He asked what he was supposed to do about it. So I told him to send you that note. When I had spoken to you about Erik you had taken my words seriously. I thought you would take his directions to you equally so.”

“But surely you knew it would prevent me from courting you also.”

“Your taking me seriously was hardly likely.”

Raoul shook his head. “You lied to me.”

“No. I only told Erik what I wanted him to write. I’m sure his threats were genuine—he is very protective of me, after all. Besides, he likes what he’s seen of you. He wouldn’t want you to lower yourself.”

“Lower myself?”

“He wouldn’t want me sleeping with a patron. He doesn’t want you sleeping with a common ballet girl.”

“Because you said so?” Raoul asked.

“Well, he’s possessive once he gets attached. He gets an idea into his mind and…well, it was mine initially but…In any case,” Christine said. “If you tried to woo another woman I’m sure things would go badly.”

She stepped closer to him. “But Raoul. He was always open to the idea of you and me. You are in love with me…I can talk to him…”

Raoul shivered. “You lied to me.” He turned away. “You manipulated me. You are not the woman I thought you were.”

She did not say anything as he walked out the door.

* * *

 

Raoul’s intention, then, was to show Erik and Christine both what he thought of their little games. He should have listened to Philippe about Christine all along—and about the foolishness of heeding a supposed phantom. He went straight to a bar with every intent of sleeping with the first prostitute to look at him.

But when he got there, he found the women all very unappealing. He was in a very bad temper, and still wanted to know what Christine had been thinking. So instead he got himself a bottle of wine and drank until it was empty. And then, the hour being late, he went home.

Philippe commented on his staying out late. He grunted, unwilling to explain himself, and headed up to his room.

When he opened the door, he found the window open and a man waiting for him, sitting on his bed. A man in a black suit and cape, with a white mask covering the majority of his face. He paused in the doorway.

(The Phantom is dangerous, he heard a voice whisper in one ear.)

(Erik, another voice whispered to him, is an utter bastard and ought to be punched in the face.)

He closed the door behind him and stalked over to the bed, raising his fist. But the mask made him doubt where he even ought to punch—he would probably end up hurting his hand—and as he hesitated, Erik spoke.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Raoul.”

Raoul lowered his fist and clenched both hands at his sides. “The devil?”

“Really. The way you treated Christine today was abominable.”

“The way she’s treated me is…”

“Defensible. What was she to expect from a handsome young aristocrat? She had to protect her virtue, you know. And if she was a little possessive…” Erik shrugged. He smiled, showing teeth that looked yellow juxtaposed with his ivory mask. “What can I say? She is my student, after all.”

“This farce is over with,” Raoul said.

“What farce?”

“Your idiotic instructions. I followed them to make Christine happy. But we are done now, and I will love whomever I want. I am gone from her life now. Probably I will never go to your opera house again. That, I think, should satisfy you.”

“Really, Raoul?” Erik tilted his head. “I think you’re overreacting. Give it a day. You will change your mind—and you will follow my instructions as writ.”

Raoul said, “No.”

Erik stood. Without a hint of aggression in his face, he reached over to grab Raoul’s shoulder with a single hand, and with the other hand took hold of Raoul’s throat. Gently, really. Except when Raoul reached up to push his hands away, Erik’s grip tightened. Raoul couldn’t get him off. He could still breathe, but he couldn’t speak.

“Calm down,” Erik said.

Raoul stared at him, choking. He was supposed to be the one calming down here?

“You don’t want to start something with me,” Erik said. He chuckled. “Well. More than you already have.” He let go of Raoul’s shoulder and squeezed his throat slightly harder. With the other hand he stroked Raoul’s hair. “I think our relationship now is something good. You enjoy my opera house, I enjoy your presence there. If you can remain obedient, I hope we can stay friends.”

Raoul gripped Erik’s wrist. Sighing, Erik let go of his throat.

Raoul stumbled backwards.

Erik said, “You shall apologize to Christine tomorrow.” He walked to the window. Then, pausing, he said, “You didn’t like my taking your shirts, I believe. If your possessions mean so much to you, don’t give any more scarves to Meg Giry. She reads into it too much. You belong to Christine and to me.”

With that, he climbed out the window, closing it behind him. Raoul rushed over to the window—this was a story up, surely Erik couldn’t just jump—to see no sign of Erik on the ground whatsoever. It was dark, though. There were many shadows in which to hide.

He touched his neck. Sore. It would be sore for days, maybe. Not that he would know—no one had ever strangled him before. No one had had the audacity.

If he called for Philippe, they could get the police down here. He was certain his window had been locked today. They had to find out how Erik had gotten in, stop him from doing it again. Hell, station a man on the street outside watching. His room wasn’t a parlor for ghosts and goblins and criminals. Such things, surely, could not be allowed.

Only Philippe hadn’t believed him the last time. And the police? Even less likely.

He could figure it out tomorrow. He went over to his set of drawers to get out his night shirt. Opened it.

The drawer was completely empty.

Cursing, he checked the other drawers. Empty. Empty. Empty. His shirts were gone. His pants were gone. His coats, his socks, his shoes, his scarves, his cravats, his ties…

Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.

With a final swear, he slammed the last drawer closed. Even his nightshirt! It wasn’t like he would have worn that out in public, never mind the opera house. Insult to injury. And Philippe would murder him.

He wore his clothes to bed that night, including his shoes. Just to be safe. He didn’t bathe in the morning, afraid that his last outfit would disappear while he was disrobed. He felt sweaty, uncomfortable—probably smelly. And he would have to go to see Christine today. He put on cologne, hoping it would cover anything up.

* * *

 

When did Raoul decide he was going to visit Christine?

He might well have come to such a decision on his own, honestly. While he had told himself last night he would never go to visit her again, it was not like him to leave such a thread dangling, not a thread that had first woven itself into his life when he was only a boy.

He told himself now that he was going to see her because he wanted her to explain herself further. But in truth, it had less to do with his own feelings than he would have admitted. In truth, the instant Erik had told him to apologize to Christine, he had known he would obey.

He was, despite his station, a man of the opera house. Erik’s domain. And so, like any good subject, he would do as Erik commanded.

Christine admitted him to her dressing room as soon as he showed up. Looking over his wrinkled clothes, she said, “You have had a night of it.”

“Yes—at the hands of your teacher, no less,” Raoul said. “He came to my room last night and…” He stopped. Christine didn’t need to know about his humiliation. Resisting the urge to touch his throat, he continued. “All of my clothes are gone now except what I was wearing yesterday. So forgive me if I look a little worn.”

“He must have been in a bad mood to confront you,” Christine said.

“Probably! Oh, and it seems this is all about my giving a scarf to little Meg Giry.”

“She’s not so little,” Christine said. “And you gave her what?”

“That hardly matters. It was a kindness.”

“She’ll take any crumb she can get…”

“Are you jealous of her now?” Raoul said. When Christine shrugged, he said, “Until yesterday, I was so deeply in love with you I did not see other women as women.”

Christine said, “You are still angry with me.”

“Of course I am still angry with you.”

She touched his cheek. Hands so soft. Back when they were children they were always covered in calluses and scrapes, but now they both had soft hands. Easy lives, quiet lives. Her nails were smoothly trimmed as well. Raoul pushed her hand away. Unlike Erik, she did not resist.

“You say you are not in love with me anymore,” she said. “But I do not believe you.”

“You did not even know I loved you until yesterday.”

“No. But I felt that you might love me someday. I am very happy, Raoul.”

“Well, I’m glad that you are happy.”

“We should be happy together,” she said. Her smile was warm, so very warm. She sat down at her dressing table. “I have good news. Erik did not only visit you last night.”

“No?”

“He came to me. At my place with Mamma Valerius, which he does not do very often anymore. He told me he was very sorry for our troubles and that he would forgive you everything if I asked him, for his love of both of us.”

Raoul said, “I do not need his forgiveness.”

His throat seemed to throb.

Christine smiled apologetically. “I am glad of that, then. For I fear I may have misspoke…”

“What?”

“I said that I appreciated his sorrow on my behalf. And I said that I myself would forgive you if you only loved me again and would court me the way you intended to, and put this behind us.” Christine shrugged. “And you know he is very insistent that I get what I want…He said that if you will court me, he will be pleased with you. But if you leave me then he will be very angry.”

Raoul smiled back. “Is that so?”

“I do hope you will not cause him to be angry, Raoul. He does such dreadful things.”

“You just…misspoke?”

“Yes, and I am very sorry. I hope you will forgive me.”

“Well,” Raoul said. “I hope you will forgive me too. I have no intention of courting you.”

Christine gasped. He touched the back of her chair, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I had thought we might make things better today. But you have changed too greatly. I had thought we might at least remain friends. But now, I think perhaps not.”

Christine stood. In a level voice, she said, “You have bruises on your neck.”

“I do, don’t I?”

“I thought the man I loved was not a fool.”

“And yet I keep losing my clothes,” Raoul said. “And now, I have lost my love too. Well, these things happen sometimes. I’m sure Philippe at least will not scold me for this loss.”

He expected, as he left that opera house that day, that something dire would happen. A fire would break out, or he would be attacked from behind with a noose, or at the very least he would hear that voice again. But nothing happened. Nothing at all.

When he got home that night, his clothes were still missing. He told Philippe. Philippe leant him some outfits for the next few days, and the next day took him shopping. And although Raoul felt half paranoid putting his new clothes away in their drawers, these ones did not disappear.

He did not go to see Christine all week. It felt odd. A part of his normal cycle erased, no matter how recently it had been established. He did not hear voices, nor did he see shadows in odd places. But he was a bit on edge.

When Philippe asked him to go to the opera with him that Friday, he of course refused.

“Indeed? But you have enjoyed our time there so much lately.”

“That, as you know, was because of Miss Christine Daae,” Raoul said. “I have broken with her now. I do not wish to see her.”

“Very well. It was a good choice, that, a mature decision. But you will miss an excellent performance of _Norma_. I must warn you of that.”

“It is too bad, but I fear I must stay far away from the Opera Populaire for the time being.”

“As you wish.”

And so Raoul stayed home that night, an even greater irregularity. And when he woke the next morning, he heard Philippe had never returned.

His mother and sisters shook their heads in half-indulgent disapproval. What could be done with such a man?

Raoul put on his new coat and headed off to the Opera Populaire.

* * *

 

“You are out of place, Raoul.”

Raoul had not gone to see Christine this time. This was not her style, although she might well be complicit. No, he had gone straight to Box Five, and there he had sat for nearly the entire performance of _Norma_ with no interruption. Until now, halfway through the last act, the voice finally spoke from behind him.

He turned, expecting to see no one. But Erik was there, sitting only a few rows back. This time he had decided to let himself be seen.

Perhaps this was because he was wearing one of Raoul’s coats, one of the more expensive ones. He smirked when Raoul glanced at it, and readjusted the collar. As if Raoul cared about clothing at this point.

“You took my brother.”

“I did,” Erik said. “You did not respect my demands, Raoul, and it seems you continue to lack this respect.” He stood and walked over to Raoul’s side. “Christine has a letter for you.”

“I want my brother back.”

“You should go and speak to her.”

“Did you kill him?”

“He is alive. He has been in an opium dream for hours—but from what I’ve heard he spends enough time drunk or drugged that it is unlikely to harm him.” Erik put a hand on the back of Raoul’s neck. “You should go talk to Christine. And then, when it is late, come back here, and we will talk about your brother.”

* * *

 

Christine greeted him with slight surprise.

“Erik says you have a letter for me.”

“I do. I told him I did not think you would come to get it…I suppose he knows better than me, in the end.”

She smiled hesitantly. Raoul did not smile back. He held out his hand for the letter, but instead Christine placed her hand in his and squeezed it. “You look tired. I hope you have been all right.”

“You don’t care what happens to me.”

“Of course I care. I love you, Raoul.” She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it before looking him in the eyes. “Tell me what Erik’s done now and I promise you I can make it right.”

He stared at her. All week long, he had been expecting an attack on himself at any moment, constantly vigilant. All week long, he had been able to think of only two things: Erik and her. He had tried a million times to rearrange events in his head, restructure their relationship and turn her into a demon. But now, with her in front of him, he saw her as she had always been: his partner, his friend. And, out of all the world, the one person he trusted with everything.

He swallowed. No. No. “I need the letter.”

“If that is all you need from me, I will give it to you,” Christine said. “But you’re tired. Sit down.” She offered her chair. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No. Please, the letter.”

“Very well.”

She handed it to him. He tore the envelope open immediately and read it to himself.

“Dear Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny,

“Although you have behaved yourself badly over the past couple weeks, I find it understandable. You have been in a state of emotional turmoil. However, by continuing to reject Christine and myself you are only causing yourself more pain and worsening your position. Thus, I find I cannot wait any longer to correct you.

“As you have no doubt realized by now, I have taken your brother, the Comte, into my care. He will be returned to you when you have made amends with Christine and myself. As I could not bring myself to harm someone whom I and Christine care for so greatly, I felt this was the best approach to our current situation. I will not harm the Comte if you obey me promptly. But if you do not, I cannot guarantee he will be returned without injury. And if you continue your tantrum for too long, I cannot guarantee his return at all.

“You should be kind to Christine. She has loved you for a long time, and she is deserving of more than either of us can ever give her. You know this as well as I do.

“For myself, you may say that I have no right to anything from you. You are right. I am a man who has been born into this world with nothing, no possessions and no virtues except my voice. But I have always claimed what I have no right to. You belong to this opera house, and you belong to me. In the future you will obey me. I do not wish to have to make demonstrations again.

“Sincerely,

“Erik.”

Christine touched his arm. “What does it say?”

Raoul folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. Erik could have said all of this to his face—and could have said it more frankly, without dancing around his threats with pretty language. But there was always the veneer of elegance, always the showmanship. His mask was not only one that covered his face.

He knew Erik better than many in the opera house, but he still thought in many ways the rumors were accurate: a monster dwelt in the basement. Really, that was all one needed to know.

“Raoul?”

He turned to her. She looked worried. Her hand on his arm was steadying. He wanted to be angry. He also knew that Erik was telling the truth—she deserved his love, and more than his love. And Raoul even wanted to give it to her. Just looking at her, he knew he loved her.

She was not the woman he had thought she was. Maybe Erik had changed her. Maybe Raoul had always assumed she was more innocent than she really was. But then, he had always known she was clever and very practical. He had simply assumed she would never use her cleverness against him.

He wanted to run away from her, now. To get some space, perhaps only for a day or two. They needed space. They needed very badly to work things out, to figure out what they both wanted. They wouldn’t be able to do that, though. Erik wanted things solved quickly, and so did Christine.

And Raoul couldn't be selfish now. Not when it might hurt Philippe.

He cleared his throat.

“I love you, Christine.”

And God help him, he still thought that when she blushed she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

“I knew you did,” she said. “And you aren’t angry with me anymore?”

He shrugged. “I forgive you.”

He let her hug him. No, he thought. I don’t forgive you yet. I will someday, but not today. But he knew that didn’t matter very much. Already he could see how quickly he would allow himself to forget. Soon he would be telling Philippe he was back with Christine, this time to stay. Soon he would be asking her to marry him. And he would want her to marry him (it was all he had ever wanted), only…

He could feel his body shaking in her embrace. But as he was about to cry, her lips touched his cheek, and then she whispered, “We’re going to be all right, Raoul.”

All right.

He wanted to believe that.

* * *

 

When he came back to Box Five, Erik was waiting. He couldn’t tell whether Erik had even left.

“You talked to Christine?”

A question. Maybe he had watched Raoul and Christine talking. Maybe he had simply waited here, knowing Raoul would obey. Raoul had no idea. It barely mattered.

He took the letter out of his pocket. “I did.”

“And the two of you have reconciled?”

Raoul nodded.

Erik said, “You have been very difficult lately.”

“I know.”

“You have made it up to Christine and I am glad. But you have offended me as well, Raoul. What do you intend to do about that?”

Raoul’s fists clenched at his sides, but he made himself relax. Careful. This was not a fight he wanted to start.

Erik was still waiting for an answer.

“I do not know,” Raoul said. “Whatever you want.”

“Oh, so you do not consider my orders to be a farce?”

Raoul repeated, “I will do whatever you want.”

Erik nodded. He put a hand on Raoul’s shoulder. “Good.”

And he must have been watching Christine’s dressing room after all, he must have, for he leaned forward and lightly kissed Raoul on the cheek, exactly where Christine had kissed before. Raoul shuddered at the familiarity with it. But while Erik smelled of cologne rather than flowery perfume, and his mask was cold where it bumped against Raoul’s face, his lips felt no different from Christine’s. They were the same.

Erik turned to the wall. He twisted a fleur de lys pattern engraved in bronze, and a panel slid aside. Erik stepped over to the opening, waving a casual farewell.

“Wait,” Raoul said. “My brother.”

“He will be returned to you. Be peaceful, Raoul,” Erik said. “Frankly, you worry too much. As long as you don’t cause any more trouble, everything will be fine.”

The wall closed behind him.

Raoul went home. Philippe was still missing, and his mother and sisters were beginning to worry, but he knew they would not have to worry for long. He went up to his room.

There, on his bed, sat a huge pile of clothes, all folded neatly with the white shirts on the top. Raoul gave them a long stare before sighing and beginning to replace them in his drawers, wedging them in alongside his new clothes. Philippe would claim it had to be the work of a prankster now, unless he remembered more of his little adventure than Erik seemed to expect. And Raoul doubted, even if he remembered, that he would make much of it. Philippe was an eternal skeptic.

The shirts were back. The coats were back. The pants were back. The cravats were back. And the scarves were all back, including the one Raoul had given to Meg Giry.

And all the clothing, every single article, smelled vaguely of the sewer.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's that.  
> In my last couple fics Christine has been very much off to the side, something of a prop for drama between Erik and Raoul. So this is her turn to fuck everything up, and I hope you enjoyed it. I have to say, writing a slightly darker Christine does give me a certain quantity of joy.  
> Do you like manipulative Christine? Do you think this is really E/R/C, or should it have been tagged as something else? Let me know in the comments, or come talk to me on tumblr at convenientalis. Thanks for reading! :) :) ;)


End file.
